This Mother’s Day was… layered.

On the surface, it was beautiful. We stayed at a beachfront hotel—one of those quiet, peaceful places where the water greets you the moment you step outside. I spent the day with my husband and children, surrounded by warmth and rest. I did my Bible study on the patio, sipped tea, read my lighthearted romance book, and allowed myself to just be.

But underneath the softness was a familiar ache.

This is my third Mother’s Day without Sania. And while I smiled and held space for the joy, my heart also carried the weight of what’s missing. Every time I received a “Happy Mother’s Day,” I responded with kindness—but it pricked something inside me. Grief and gratitude sat shoulder to shoulder. Love and longing intertwined. It wasn’t just a hard day—it was a day that required me to hold a lot at once.

And then, the next morning, something shifted.

I was back on the patio, the breeze a little gentler, the sky a little quieter. The birds were singing, and the ocean kept doing what it always does—moving forward. And in that moment, I felt it: less pressure.

The day after carried relief.

It reminded me how often we go through things—holidays, milestones, hard moments—and it’s not until the after that we can exhale. That we realize what we carried. That we remember we made it through.

And that realization whispered something true:

We can do hard things.

We can hold both joy and sorrow.

We can show up and still feel the ache.

And when we make it to the other side—there is peace. Not perfect peace, maybe, but a kind that rebuilds us. Grows us. Anchors us.